


The High Country

by rothalion



Category: Army Of Two (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rothalion/pseuds/rothalion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This an alternate universe work set in the late 1870's American west. The guys are basically guns for hire, riding on posses and guarding ranches against rustlers. Just thought it would be fun to play with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Debt Paid

_The High Country_

_Chapter One_

_A Debt Paid_

 

 

_[](http://s1339.photobucket.com/user/chairtoboleek/media/Friesan3.jpg.html)_

 

The big man crept silently, for his bulk, up the remaining few feet to the top of the rock strewn ridgeline, cursing the sharp scree that was cutting into his huge palms. Just before he reached the crest he removed the dark gray, sweat stained, weather worn Hardee-hat that covered his bald head, set it aside and squinted toward the north. It wasn’t that this part of the country was Indian territory, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. Besides, it wasn’t just the Indians a man needed to watch out for. There were more than enough rogue Civil War veterans quite willing to relieve a careless man of his life, for his horse and kit and for this man the danger was greater. He’d just spent the last several months making his fair share of enemies three hundred miles south while riding for a posse that caught up to and wiped out the leader of a violent gang of rustlers and thieves. That man, Angelo Rivas, had men loyal to him; men who promised revenge and the big drifter figured it was wise to head north to his Montana property for the winter and lay low. His half Mexican blood would hate the cold but there was nothing for it. He took a quick look over his left shoulder and noted that his big, ground reined Missouri Fox Trotter; Percheron mix horse was well within reach should he need to retreat. As he expected the roan colored gelding still stood, right where he’d left him snorting at the barren ground in search of a bit of grass.

The need to lay low was why he was in this stretch of country, although the long trip to his homestead was now temporarily on hold. If the man he he’d been tracking was who he seemed to be, the big drifter owed him his life. His gut feeling told him that the rider slumped over the neck of the ambling horse was indeed none other than Elliot Salem, and Rios trusted his gut. Besides, if he was correct there was absolutely no way that the kid would be foolish enough to expose himself the way he’d been doing unless he was damn near unconscious, or damn near dead.

Tyson Rios, formerly a captain in the Union Army out of New York, had picked up the strange meandering tracks nearly two days ago. The hoof prints showed the horse to be big, very big, but more curiously they also showed the animal to be idly plodding along without guidance; simply picking its way along the easiest route, but heading nowhere; often stopping and stomping restlessly in place.

After finally getting a quick look at his target that morning Rios changed his tact, and instead of simply tailing the mysterious rider he’d sped up a bit, passed, then paralleled the man’s course, if you labeled it as such, from just below the ridgeline above strange rider. Now he lay waiting, some hundred and fifty yards ahead of the man’s path, to try and sight him in his scope.

Just as the rider came into view, Rios slid the old brass navigator’s scope open and raised it to his dark right eye. The target squirreled into focus as he adjusted the device, and the big man sighed. Damp blood soaked the back of the man’s shirt from his left shoulder down, as well as the horse’s right, white haunch, possibly seeping from a second wound on the boy’s right hip. Even after three years, he still wore the same battered Union forage cap Rios recalled him irreverently wearing backwards. He noted too that the man was now, oddly enough, bare footed. Rios figured he must be freezing. According to his thermometer the nights had been dropping into the teens for weeks now.

“Damn it boy, what the hell’d you get your fool ass tangled up with this time?”

He watched the horse with his slumped rider plod along, taking note of more details. The horse was what first drew his attention that morning. He’d caught just a flash of color through the fall bare, Birch glade just after sunrise as he followed warily from about two miles out. The color combined with the size of the hoof prints had set off a tingle of recognition. It was that recognition which got him to where he was now. If not for the color clue, he’d planned to abort his stalking, turn around and continue northwest toward Eureka. Some stranger, obviously toting trouble, was of no concern to Rios. In this country a man tended to his own safety first and for most. It was a harsh code, but one that men, lone wolves as they were, lived by.

The horse was a huge pure black and snow white paint. All four white socked legs ended in feet that swished with thick black feathering. He went an easy seventeen hands and the five foot, ten inch tall, narrow hipped kid looked near ridiculous riding the big boned stallion. Rios recalled the young man’s prideful claim that the animal was half North American Spotted Draft, whatever the hell that was and half Friesian. Which he also bragged, was one of the Draft breeds Medieval knights rode into battle. Breed didn’t matter; the stallion was big, mean and fiercely loyal to his owner. Rios had witnessed the big animal standing guard, with a vicious salvo of flashing hooves and teeth after a Mexican rustler’s bullet tore through his shoulder knocking him from the saddle. It took an Argentinian gaucho and his [bolas](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bolas) to subdue the horse long enough to get Salem clear so they could treat him. Even then the big animal screamed for hours until the kid finally came around and was able to go to him.

Salem had made the strange claims about his horse’s lineage during their first encounter, seven years ago in the winter 1869. The encounter consequently led to many years of companionable traveling riding as guns for hire for posses all over the west from the Mexican border to Montana and the Canadian border. Rios grinned at the memory. He’d foolishly found himself caught in heavy weather up in Absarokas Mountain high country, above Clarks Fork Bottom. When he found, what he’d thought was a safe refuge to weather the storm, a small, dilapidated trapper’s cabin he thanked his lucky fortune. Unfortunately though for the freezing, hungry, twenty-nine year old drifter, Elliot Salem had staked a claim on the little cabin two weeks earlier and the wary twenty-one year old did not wish to share either his supplies or shelter. Finally, despite the kid trying to run the big ex-captain off for nearly two days and nights with sporadic sniper fire, the duo declared a tentative truce and shared a small shack for eight weeks, safely riding out the deadly blizzard.

Now, three years after going their separate ways in San Francisco in ‘73, fate had once again played her strange hand, and despite the wild vastness of that part of the country she’d allowed Tyson Rios to stumble across the boy again. Or was it something more than that? Salem knew about Rios’ Montana property, which raised the possibility that it had been his destination when he’d run into trouble. Or had running into trouble driven him north on a desperate survival bid to hide out and heal? Although their parting had not been exactly civil, Rios had made it clear, to the stubborn young drifter, that his 2000 plus acre homestead, about thirty-five miles out from Eureka,Montana was there should the younger man ever need to dig in.

Since Rios couldn’t see the rider’s face, the second point of interest that the ex-Union Captain was looking for was the boy’s long gun. No, he corrected himself, long guns. The boy was a roving armory, and that was more along the lines what he was checking for. Most men carried a hand gun and a rifle, but this kid toted at least thirty pounds of long guns, not counting his ammo. Then, as Rios watched, the big paint horse slowed and skittered a bit, rotating to his left after possibly catching a whiff of Rios’ big roan in the light, brisk breeze. He smiled when he saw the expected weapons. Not one carefully cased long gun, but two tucked away beneath the injured rider’s left leg in a specially designed boot, and jutting from a standard rifle boot beneath the rider’s right leg a smaller rifle, which he recognized as Salem’s immaculateSpencer repeater. Just as there was no mistaking the horse, there was no mistaking the rifle. The smaller man had destroyed the Spencer’s stock smashing in the skulls of several renegade Apaches in Arizona during a hand to hand skirmish back in ’70. Not one to part with a weapon, the boy had expertly fitted it neatly back together with brass plates and pins. The detail stood out clearly in Rios’ scope.

The weapons on the man’s left were a pair of odd birds as well, so to speak. A trait they shared with their young owner. The first, wrapped in a waterproof leather case and tucked beneath the man’s left leg, was a forty-nine inch long, muzzle loading, .45 caliberWhitworth rifle. The weapon was accurate to 1000 yards and he’d witnessed the boy taking down an Elk, straight through the heart, from 750 with ease. It had been a beautiful, clean kill.

The third long gun of the trio, also carefully cased, Rios knew to be an equally long, nine pound, single shot, .45 caliber, breech loadingMartini-Henry MK I Infantry Rifle; accurate to an amazing 1000 plus yards. Rios had witnessed the Martini’s prowess back in ‘73 when the boy killed a man from 950 yards while they were riding for a Texas Ranger Captain, named Leander H. McNelly, during theSutton-Taylor feud down in Texas. Accuracy aside, the weapon being single shot proved pointless to the young man. Rios had witnessed him cranking off accurate shots at thirteen rounds per minute.

To round out his arsenal the younger man carried, in a well-worn, tied down leather holster brimming with rounds; a Tula made, 1853 Russian Navy Colt copy. He’d sawed off the weapon’s barrel to a near snub like length, and the powerful little pistol could also be fitted with an odd detachable shoulder stock. It would win no quick draw contest, but it had stopping power, was easily concealable and with the shoulder stock proved uniquely accurate for an altered hand gun. Where the man acquired such odd guns was a mystery to Tyson Rios. What was perfectly clear though, was the frightening skill and near conscienceless regularity with which he used them.

Convinced of the rider’s identification Rios closed the scope, and after checking the surroundings began to slide and skitter back down the nearly vertical slope. Once down he carefully returned the little brass tool to its case, and nestled that case securely in his left side saddle bag. Then, with striking agility he swung into the saddle. The big roan sidled a bit to the right to adjust to Rios’ weight, steadied, and then stepped off at the slightest nudge of his knees. Rios clicked the horse into a canter, and began planning on exactly how to approach the ailing man. Unless the big horse, called Jacopo, remembered either his roan or himself, Rios feared that he’d not be able to get near enough to tend to its rider. Furthermore, if the animal began to buck he’d throw Salem possibly injuring him further.

With that in mind and certain that no one tailed them, Rios nudged the roan into a trot and after a few hundred yards came to a spot where they could safely angle up the slope and back down to reach the level where Salem was riding. That done Rios again waited for the wandering pair to catch up. As they passed him he edged the roan forward and began to follow at an angle just off their right side. Jacopo stopped; stutter stepped and spun round when Rios got to within fifteen feet. The big paint flared his nostrils, rolled his eyes, laid back his ears and stomped his feathered feet angrily.

“Whoa, big boy, ho there Jacopo.” Rios crooned softly.

The big horse began to back away shaking its lowered head. Rios still couldn’t get a glimpse of the horse’s rider’s face. He stood a bit in his stirrups and surveyed the surrounding landscape. Their back trail seemed clear but Rios wanted to get into the Birch wood off to their south west as quickly as possible so they’d have some cover.

He legged the roan forward and Jacopo bared his teeth and whinnied angrily. Rios sighed. Then he recalled Salem whistling at the paint to calm him. He licked his cracked his lips and tried to mimic the sound. Jacopo swung his head up and shook it side to side seeming confused.

“Easy Jacopo, easy boy; you carried him this far old boy don’t shake him off now.”

Again he edged his mount slightly closer this time moving so they were head to head. Jacopo side stepped away and Rios pressed his right knee into the roan to follow as he reach very slowly reach for the drooping reigns. Jacopo snorted screamed at him and Rios barely pulled back in time to escape the flashing white teeth.

“Jacopo, easy boy.”

He whistled again and Jacopo stilled. Rios studied the frightened animal and reached for his rifle. He checked to see if it was loaded then very carefully extended it toward the big horse. As Jacopo backed away from the weapon Rios snagged the reigns and slung them towards himself. He grasped them firmly and held tight should Jacopo try and dodge away. He slipped the rifle back into its boot and slowly slid his right leg over the saddle never taking his eyes from Jacopo. Once down, he tugged gently on the tether until pulling it taught, and steeped toward the horse.

“Easy, ho there Jacopo, whoa now, I’m a friend. Let me see your master, big boy. Good boy Jacopo, good boy.”

Finally he had the huge horse’s bridle firmly in his right hand and with his left he offered him a small sweet apple. The horse refused the treat with a sharp yank on his bridle and a snort. Rios stood firm and moved more directly in front of him. He reached up slowly and scratched the white moon shaped blaze between his eyes as he’d seen Salem do.

“Easy there boy, easy Jacopo.”

Finally, after several minutes of soothing chatter and stroking, Jacopo blew and relaxed. Rios knew they’d come to an agreement. The big animal shuddered a bit beginning to give in to his own exhaustion. Rios felt for the animal. The pair were un-naturally close, and carrying his unresponsive rider so far must have stressed Jacopo to the point of panic.

“Good Jacopo. Now I’m gonna see to your master. Easy big boy.”

Without releasing the reigns Rios moved along Jacopo’s left side and carefully reached up. Salem was slumped against the horse’s thick neck his face buried in the black and white peppered mane. He parted the thick hair, and pressed his fingers against the side of the boy’s filthy neck. The pulse was there but far too weak. Rios groaned he didn’t have either time or any very viable options. He brushed away more of Jacopo’s mane, and got a look at Salem’s face. It was bruised and bloody. Someone had done a damn fine job beating him. Seemingly sensing Rios’ concern Jacopo whinnied softly, and turned as far as his neck allowed as if trying to see what was occurring.

“Easy Jacopo, I’ll get him taken care of.”

Rios sighed, and tried to assess the man’s other injuries, but due to Jacopo’s size he’d need to take him down. He tried to sit him up a bit, but upon seeing that his light blue shirt, crusted with dried blood at the wound site prevented further bleeding, he stopped. No point in tearing at the injury.

“Easy Jacopo, I need to go round you boy, easy does it.”

Rios moved past Jacopo’s hung head to his right flank, and checked on the lower wound. Again the cloth sealed it.

“Salem.” He called up to the man, “Yo Elliot.”

Nothing, no response at all the younger man was unconscious. There was nothing for it. To make any kind of time Rios need to mount Jacopo and hold Salem in the saddle. The only reasons he was still there were his skills and Jacopo’s intimate knowledge of his rider. Aside from smelling Salem’s blood, the big horse had simply plodded along as if his owner was merely asleep in the saddle.

Without releasing Jacopo’s reigns he returned to the horse’s left, removed Salem’s bare foot from the stirrup, and after grasping the saddle horn slowly started to mount, pausing midway to allow Jacopo to register his added weight. Content that the paint wouldn’t throw them he swung his right leg the rest of the way over, and settled in behind Salem. Finally, he removed his heavy coat, wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders, and gently settled him back against his broad chest securely in his strong arms. His mount would follow along. Along was fine, but Rios needed to decide along to where. Eureka was still sixty plus miles out, and his place thirty-five. His concern that Jacopo might, despite their little truce revolt, determined his decision. His place was closer. He’d get Salem there, stabilize his wounds, and ride like hell for Eureka and a doctor. He clucked, kneed Jacopo forward into a quick walk and called for his horse.

“Come on Roan, step it up, and keep up you sorry, old bastard.”


	2. Making Amends

_The High Country_

_Chapter Two_

_Making Amends_

 

_[](http://s1339.photobucket.com/user/chairtoboleek/media/mountain-feet-229x153.jpg.html)_

It was well after dark when Rios finally arrived at his small cabin. The temperature had dropped considerably, and even wrapped in Rios’ coat, and clutched in the big man’s arms Salem was shivering. Only twice during the long plodding ride had the younger man edged into consciousness, and both of those times he’d struggled against Rios’ firm grasp. The young man was clearly in a lot of pain, and in the cool fall air his skin was scorching against Rios’.

The first task Rios needed to perform, after stabling their mounts, was starting a fire. He tied Jacopo to the post outside of the small barn, and caught up his roan. Salem lay slumped against Jacopo’s neck, and Tyson hoped he could balance there just long enough for him to get the roan inside the warm stall, give him some water from the well and feed from the small sack he was toting.

The roan safely stabled, Rios went into the dark cabin and located a lantern on the small kitchen table. Then, after swirling the fuel around, he lit the battered copper lamp. The space flickered into sight with swirling dust motes littering the air. It had been empty for nearly a year but before leaving, Rios had fully stocked the wood bin and the root cellar. After retrieving suitable tinder and logs from the wood bin, he started a fire in the huge nearly wall sized fireplace that dominated the small house. The winters in the mountains were brutal, and if Rios was going to spend time there, he planned on being warm. He’d pretty much built the house around the Granite hearth. The tinder took with a swooshing burst of orange light, and after setting several logs adroitly around the crackling kindling Rios turned down the coarse wool blankets on the roughhewn bunk, and returned to Jacopo and Salem.

He wanted to jar the boy as little as possible when he dragged him from the saddle, but despite his height of six feet four inches, and Jacopo’s size, that task was going to prove to be a challenge. Rios stretched up on his booted toes, wrapped the unconscious man in his arms, and slowly dragged him downwards. As Salem slipped from the saddle, Jacopo sidled a bit to his right. Rios shushed the big horse, and nudged his left flank firmly with his right shoulder forcing the big horse around slightly, trapping him against the hitching rail. The contact with the rail halted the animal’s retreat, and Rios pulled Salem down into his arms wrapping his right arm under his shoulders and hooking his left in the crook of Salem’s bent knees. Throughout the entire procedure Salem hadn’t stirred at all, which frightened Rios. The movement had to be painful.

His patient in hand, Rios headed into the small cabin. Outside, Jacopo began to whinny loudly. Rios, afraid that the horse would break free of the lightly made rail, set Salem down on the bed, and headed back into the cold to stable the wounded man’s mount.

“Jacopo, whoa now, whoa there buddy. I need to take care of him, and you need to rest old friend. Whoa now.”

Once Jacopo settled, Rios untied the reigns, and walked him toward the barn. With any luck the two horses wouldn’t kick the log structure apart during the night. He unsaddled the big horse, and nudged him into the stall farthest from his roan. The roan snorted a bit at having company, but Rios wasn’t concerned. The roan was typically a docile mount. Jacopo, though, not so much, and the big cowboy knew that if the horse decided he wanted out of the small shelter, he’d easily kick his way out. With that in mind, Rios hooked him to the stall walls with two leads, allowing just enough reach for the exhausted horse to eat his oats, and drink his water. Content with the arrangement, he went back inside toting all of his and Salem’s gear over his broad shoulders.

The fire was crackling, and the small cabin had already begun to warm up. Tyson set aside the gear, and returned to the bunk. Salem had not moved.

“I damn sure hope I’m not too late kid, ‘cause you sure ain’t looking your best.”

Then, he grabbed the pail from in the kitchen area, and tramped back out into the cold to the well. He filled it, took a final look at the sky, a long listen to the slowly building breeze, and then returned inside. After setting the pot of water on the fire to boil, he stripped off his thick wool sweater, and dug through his kit for his limited first aid supplies. With the battered leather satchel clutched in his left hand, he sat down gently on the edge of the small bunk. It didn’t hold very much, and Rios had to hope that the contents would be sufficient enough to hold Salem over until he could return with the doctor.

“Where to begin?” He asked the unconscious man. “Boots first I’d say, but you ain’t wearing any. That said, ‘cause you’re about to lose your drawers, I hope you ain’t become a modest man since last we were together. Back then, in my book anyway, you had damned too little modesty.” Rios reached up and unbuttoned the three remaining buttons on Salem’s rough denim pants, and carefully began to shuffle them side to side, over his narrow hips while lifting his buttocks off of the bed. The pants finally cleared his waist, and Rios dragged them down and off of the man’s legs, noting the welts and abrasions all along Salem’s thighs and shins.

“Guess you gave ‘em hell. What they do? Strip you down, you poor fucker? Christ, look at this mess. How in the hell did you get away from them with your whole kit, kid?”

He tossed the filthy, bloody garment aside, and studied Salem’s bloody shirt. The fabric was clotted to his wounds.

“Gonna have to soak it free I guess. Then, we need to hope like hell I don’t start you up to bleeding too bad before I’m ready to start closing you up.”

Tyson crossed to the fireplace, and stuck his right pinky finger into the slightly roiling water.

“Just right.” He muttered before licking the droplet from the tip of his finger, which reminded him that he’d probably better wash his hands.

He’d learned the hard way, while stuck healing up in a Union field aid post for the wound responsible for his devastating facial scars, that you couldn’t be too clean. Some of the doctors didn’t believe the theory to be true. But, the doctor treating him, a young Major from Europe did, and he tried in vain to get the older doctors to heed his warnings. Rios, having befriended him, spent many hours talking about Europe and the new insights physicians were bringing into the field of healing and medicine. The idea of infection being one of them. Rios could still smell the stench of festering wounds. It was a smell that so many years later stuck doggedly with him.

Hands washed and a second pot set on the fire to boil Rios returned to Salem.

“I guess this might pain you some kid, but there’s nothing for it.”

He took a sopping cloth, and gently pressed it against the eight inch wide area of crusted blood below Salem’s left collar bone. As the warm water soaked into the thick cotton shirt Rios began to peel it free. As the material came lose, blood began to weep from the small bullet hole.

“Small caliber, maybe you caught some luck.”

Then, he un-buttoned the shirt, and rolled the smaller man toward himself to gain access to the wound on his right hip area. Again, he saturated the shirts’ tail, and gradually worked the material free. This wound was larger, and defiantly from a second weapon of bigger caliber. Like the shoulder wound, it did not have an exit wound. Rios set the now bloody rag aside, and tugged first Salem’s right arm free of the shirt and then his left. He discarded the filthy item on the floor with the pants, and checked for any other bullet wounds. Finding none he returned to the fire, and gathered the second pot of boiling water as well as the rags he’d boiled in the first pot.

“Ok kid here we go. Hips the worse of the two so let me clean it up, and pack it first.”

Rios cleansed the wound, and packed it with a medicinal poultice he learned to make from an old woman who lived not far from his cabin. She’d used it to heal him a time or two, and it seemed to work well. It was too bad that she’d succumbed to the harsh winter the year before last, or he could have gone to her for help instead of the long ride for the town doctor.

Next, he worked on the shoulder wound. He couldn’t feel the bullet beneath Salem’s skin so he assumed it must be in fairly deep. The boy had fortunately gained some muscle since the last time Rios’ had ridden with him, and he hoped that had slowed the projectile’s path somewhat. The fact was that, the bigger you were the less likely a bullet would kill you. Muscle was insulation.

Content with those two wounds he retrieved fresh water and cloths to try to clean up the bruising and abrasions covering Salem’s body. Whomever had grabbed the boy had beaten him severely. Rios shook his head at sight. For a small man, Salem could take a beating. He’d seen it time and time again during the years that they had ridden together. Men tended to look at him, with his silly little half smile, and take it for granted that boy was a push over. They were, on most occasions, dreadfully mistaken.

As he cleaned Elliot up, Rios pondered what had happened to the younger man. He was curious to know how Salem had taken such a brutal beating, two bullets, and still managed to ride out with his full kit. The only explanation that made any sense was that he’d escaped, was shot during the escape, but still managed to elude his captors. Then, once he’d re-grouped, he’d snuck back in, took them out, and high tailed it away. It sounded ludicrous, but the boy was that tenacious, and that physically adept, even when badly wounded, to pull it off. Jacopo was the key to the equation. Salem loved the huge horse, and there was probably no force on Earth powerful enough to keep the boy from getting his beloved stallion back.

Two hours after beginning, Rios finally finished bathing, and bandaging Salem’s numerous wounds. He washed his hands, set Salem’s clothes soaking in a vat of water, and prepared for his ride into Eureka. It was a thirty mile trek, and the roan was tired. At a walk, the one way trip would take seven hours, but Rios didn't feel as if he had seven hours. Concerned, he packed his gear, and after a final check that Salem was safely on the bunk he headed for the door. Then, he paused and went back to the small bed. If the man awoke, he might panic. He might in his fevered state not recognize the cabin, and try to get away. Rios dug through his gear, took out a small notebook and a stubby pencil, and scribbled a short note.

_Salem_

_I got you to my place but had to go fetch the doc. By my watch it’s quarter till midnight. Gonna push the roan to a Canter. Makes it a six hour round trip if the road’s good and the doc’s there. Stay put. Jacopo’s fine. Stabled with food and water. Keep your stubborn little skinny ass in this bunk Salem._

_Rios_

The roan pitched a fit about going back out into the frigid winter air. Rios slapped the unruly gelding hard on the rump to get his attention, and then proceeded to saddle him. He swung into the saddle, and after a final look at the little cabin he kneed the disgruntled horse forward into the night. Once he reached the dirt track that passed as the road off of his property, he nudged the Roan into a spirited Canter. Despite the animal’s exhaustion he took to Rios’ challenge, tossed his head, and set off at a nice pace.

Rios made town in good time, and despite the cold temperature the hard working Roan was lathered. With the exception of a few drunks collapsed just outside of the saloon’s doors, the main street was empty. Nobody was foolish enough to be outside in the damp cold weather. He passed the sheriff’s office, and through the grimy window in the pale glimmer of an ebbing lantern he could see the night deputy dozing behind the desk. Three more roughshod dwellings along, he passed the hotel. It was a three story building, the top most floor unfinished. The proprietor, seeking to get rich in by far the wrong town, had built a larger building than remotely necessary. The best part about the big edifice was the restaurant. The owner hired a big city chef from New York, and the food was the best Rios had ever eaten. It rivaled anything he’d ever eaten, even back in San Francisco. Finally he kneed the roan with his left leg, and cut across the dirt street at a slight angle. The doctor’s home and office were just ahead.

Rios tied the roan to the rail, and clomped up the six steps to the leaded glass door. There was no point in trying to be quiet. He was, after all, about to rouse the man from his slumber. As he reached to ring the large brass bell that passed as a knocker, the door swung inward and an imposingly tall brunette haired woman, with striking green eyes, dressed in a smartly pressed dark blue woolen dress and a gray smock stood holding the brass knob in her long slender fingers. She brushed a strand of hair back off of her forehead with the back of her left wrist, and smiled tiredly at Rios. He quickly snatched off his hat, and bowed ever so slightly.

“Ma’am?”

There had been no such woman in town, when he’d left Eureka a year ago. She was stunningly beautiful. He felt himself blushing despite the cold breeze.

“Can I help you?”

Rios leaned back a bit and checked the shingle hanging from the sidewalk overhang. Sure enough it read Dr. Fredrick Sinclair Watertown. He had the correct building.

“Was, I was, am looking for doc Watertown. Got, I have a sick partner out at my place. Pretty, he’s pretty beat up. Got, He’s, he has a couple of rounds in him. It’s a bit more’n I can manage on my own. He in? Well Doc W. Is he in? It’s kinda urgent. Boy’s hurt real bad, well badly.”

She smiled and stepped aside while motioning him to follow with her left arm.

“Come on in. It’s freezing out there. Just have a seat. I’ll wake Dr. Watertown.”

Rios sat on the well-worn plush sofa that served as a bench in the waiting area. He wrinkled his nose at the smells. Once the strange woman had wandered away, the scent of her perfume tailing after her; he began to notice the medicinal odors typical of a doctor’s office. Alcohol, bandages, bleach and the faint aroma of coffee wafted round the small warm room. He twisted his hat in his hands, and tried to take his mind off of the brunette. It had been a while since he’d been with a woman. A long while, and the last few had looked nothing like this one.

“Stay focused you moron.” He hissed to himself. “What the hell would a fine lady like her want with a sacred up saddle tramp like you? You know damn well that as soon as spring rolls in it’s back off into the wild to make money again, so just forget it.”

“Hello, I’m Samantha, and Doc Watertown will be right out. If you can give me some idea of your partner’s injuries, a bit more specific that is, I will pack the doctor’s kit while he gets dressed. Come with me please.”

Rios stood and followed along behind Samantha doing his best not to track the swishing of her hips beneath her skirt, and damned glad that his chore coat went down well below his waistline.

“And you are?” She asked setting a large black satchel on the clinic table.

“Oh, ah sorry, Ma’am. My apologies.” He said pulling off his glove, and extending his huge right hand. “Rios, Tyson Rios. I have a place out about thirty miles north a here. Doc knows me. Knows I’m good for his fee too. I’ve been gone a year or so, but I’m back for winter at best.”

Samantha took his hand in hers and shook it firmly.

“Glad to meet you. I’m Doc Watertown’s nurse. I’ve been here oh about eight months. He was my mentor back east, and when he offered the opportunity to practice with him out here I took it. Now, you mentioned two bullet wounds?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Neither with an exit wound. Right hip and left shoulder just below his collar bone. Hip’s a bigger caliber.”

“Good, and your partner…”

“Salem.”

“Salem, is he a big man like you?”

Rios flushed a bit, and hoped that between his dark complexion, and the dim lighting that she’d not notice.

“No, Ma’am. I tend to run a bit bigger than most fellas do, so no. Salem he’s small. Say five-ten a hundred and seventy pounds.”

“Thank you. So we have surgical tools, Laudanum, bandages. Morphine…”

“Morphine?”

“You are familiar with it, Mr. Rios?”

“Tyson, Ma’am, and yes, Ma’am. Can’t say I much like it though. It’s a miracle and curse all balled up into one, and Salem, he had a bad run with that stuff back a few years ago. Real bad, damn near killed him. Not so sure he’d take to havin’ in his system again.”

“I’ll make Dr. Watertown aware of your concern. Well that looks like it.”

“He’s burnin’ up with fever, lost a bit a blood too. I don’t know how long he’s been carrying those bullets. They’d festered a bit. I cleaned and packed ‘em but…”

“Ok there is medicine for fever as well. Oh, good here’s the doctor. A moment please?”

For a few minutes, that seemed like hours to Tyson, the pair conferred, and after the addition of several more items to the black bag the doctor crossed to Rios.

“Tyson, long time old friend how are you?” The older man said extending his hand to Tyson.

“Doing good doc. Salem, though, he’s hurt pretty bad. I’m real worried.”

“Well let’s just get on out there, and see what we can do for the boy. Sam, the shop’s in your capable hands, and if need be Wally over at the sheriff knows how to find me out at Rios’ place.”

“Be careful, and it was nice to meet you Mr., well Tyson.”

“Likewise, Ma’am, Samantha.”

On the steps Rios slapped his hat back on, and untied the exhausted roan.

“Doc, I’m gonna need a fresh mount. Is there any chance you can ride, and forget the buggy. We’d make damn sight better time in the saddle on fresh horses.”

“Of course, of course. I might be getting up in age but, I’m still fit as a fiddle, son. The livery’s over yonder now, the old one burnt to the ground not long after you left us last year follow me.”

 

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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